


There Is No Surviving This With the Way We're Living

by thesaddestboner



Series: Say Farewell to the Anchor (This Ship is Sailing Away) [1]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Friends With Benefits, Gay Sex For the Sake of the Team, Losing, M/M, Situational Homosexuality, poor coping mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-15
Updated: 2008-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Losing is a weird, foreign thing to Justin Verlander.  He’s never lost at any level of ball before—high school to college to the minors to the Bigs—and he doesn’t know how to cope.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Is No Surviving This With the Way We're Living

**Author's Note:**

> Another “Music Is My Boyfriend” meme request. I think this is the closest I’ve gotten to an actual drabble. Set during the 2008 season, when Verlander was having a bad year. 
> 
> Title from "Surviving Disasters," by Our Last Night.
> 
> I finally figured out how to backdate things.
> 
> Thanks to [**sinquepida**](http://sinquepida.livejournal.com/) for the beta.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

Losing is a weird, foreign thing to Justin Verlander. He’s never lost at any level of ball before—high school to college to the minors to the Bigs—and he doesn’t know how to cope. He knows a lot of things, knows when to throw the 12-to-6 curve, when to mix in the changeup, when to blast them away with the fastball. He knows when to pivot and throw over to first. He knows how to drop down a bunt (even if he looks awkward and out of place with a batting helmet on) but he doesn’t know what to do when he isn’t winning.

Robertson, though, Robertson’s been through the losing. He’s one of a handful of guys left over from that terrible 2003 team that Inge brings up every now and then when the competitive fire in their teammates’ eyes flickers a little bit.

So Verlander goes to Robertson when he hits 1-7, thinks Robertson will know what to do.

And he does. 

Robertson pulls Verlander into the warmly lit hotel room and shuts the door behind him. The room is bathed in an orangey glow that’s a shade lighter than Robertson’s hair.

“What’d you do in ’03—you know, to deal?” Verlander asks, as Robertson opens the minibar and surveys its contents.

“Didn’t really cope,” Robertson drawls, “so much as I jus’—made myself forget.” He grabs a bottle of Grey Goose and hipchecks the minibar shut.

“How’d you manage _that_? I can’t keep from running every bad pitch over in my mind until I think my head’s gonna explode,” Verlander grumbles, snagging a couple glasses and joining Robertson by the beds.

Robertson uncorks the vodka and begins to pour. “I got my ways.” He takes the now-filled glasses and puts them on the nightstand. And then he puts his palms on Verlander’s chest, inexplicably warm after handling chilled vodka, and guides him back onto the bed.

“What’re you—”

“Gonna show you how to forget,” Robertson interrupts, pulling the corner of his mouth into a sharply angled smirk.

Verlander thinks hazily that he should stop him from—whatever it is Robertson intends on doing, but he doesn't. Instead, he knots his fists in the front of Roberton's shirt, thinking, _Well, if this is what it takes._

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


End file.
